


232 - Taking Care of Pregnant Girlf

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Dad Van, F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 17:37:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17390705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “Van takes care of his pregnant girlfriend? I know you have written some dad Van ones where you mention stuff like it, but maybe you could write one full of it. Like, going to malls and getting stuff for the baby and waking her up with a wonderful breakfast, making her feel not insecure about the changes in her body, helping her deal with the morning sickness, staying up all night with her when she can’t sleep”Bonus mini-request of the inclusion of At Last by Etta James.





	232 - Taking Care of Pregnant Girlf

As you watched condensation drip down the mirror, you considered the reality of the situation. There just wouldn't be moments like that for much longer. Neck deep in sparkly bubble bath water, everything still and quiet. Dead peaceful. The only sound was the far off traffic from the main road a block over. If you wanted, you could splash in the water and listen to it settle. But you didn't. You laid with your eyes closed, hands running over the stretched skin of your pregnant body. In a couple of months, there would be no such thing as perfect baths. There would be a baby though, and that would more than make up for it. Regardless, you'd miss those moments of solitude.

"Y/N!"

And, it was gone.

Van's voice was loud and excited. You listened as he dropped keys somewhere and kicked off his boots. As he padded through the house, you were grateful that he was a socks inside type of person. If he clomped around in boots he'd cause such a racket. Through the open bathroom doorway, Van walked in and put an armful of bags on the ground. You looked over the side of the tub at them, then up at him.

"Hey, love," he said, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

"Hey… What are you doing? I'm tryna have a moment here."

Van stopped moving and looked at you, then the bath, then the rest of the room. He clearly didn't get it.

"You're havin' a bath?"

"Yes…"

"You always have baths. Why's this a moment? I got all this stuff to show you," he said, motioning to the floor of bags. He was bouncing on the spot. Sending him out of the room to wait wouldn't be fair. It would be like sending a puppy outside when he knew all the kids were inside.

"Baby stuff?" you guessed. He nodded and grinned, completely missing the mocking tone of your voice.

Van sat on the tiles of the bathroom floor and did a show and tell of all the things he'd bought. He'd found a onesie with little alligators printed on it. He spelled out the joke for you, just in case you didn’t get the connection. There were picture books. "The ones that have a moral of the story, like you said we should get," Van explained. Bless. He'd found a range of gadgets and booties and bottles that he deemed to be worthy, or more likely, he was talked into buying by the shop assistants that he would be putting through uni if they worked on commission. When he'd made you look at everything and comment on it all, he disappeared with the stuff. It would be added to the unsorted pile in the spare room that was yet to be babyfied.

He returned shortly with a wine glass, a bottle, and another bag.

"I can't drink that," you said, surprised that he'd even considered it.

"You can, see. Went and found you some non-alcoholic stuff. Tried it first to make sure it wasn't shit. Taste alright," Van replied, handing over the glass and pouring it for you.

Without saying anything, you sipped. It had been months since you last had wine, so you couldn't exactly remember the taste. Whatever you were consuming, it was cold, baby-safe, and good.

"Good," you whispered, sinking into the bubbles. Van's face lit up.

"Yeah? See. I'm just thinking about the kid. And here," he said, handing out the final bag. You twinkled your wet fingers to demonstrate your inability to touch it. "No, it's okay. It's for the bath."

You smiled and swapped the bag for the glass. Inside was one of the comically large rubber ducks you'd wanted forever. They were from a homewares store that had always been too expensive for you. Van argued otherwise, but he would spend all his money on you if you let him. Every now and then you could justify a feature piece for a room, but a giant rubber duck was useless. You loved it.

"Van!" you squealed, sitting up quickly, sending water splashing about. You'd stopped being self-conscious around Van years ago. He was so interested in every change your body was going through that there was nothing to hide. Once sitting on the water, the duck looked even funnier. "I love her,"

"I know. I know you always said it was dumb, but the kid will like it too. Was gonna pretend it was for them if you didn't like it,"

"You know I love it,"

"Yeah, but… Anyway. Glad you're happy, love," he said, leaning down to kiss your forehead again, then leaving you to your 'wine' and duck.

…

You had given up trying to sneak out of the bedroom. When the morning sickness first set in, you skipped the ensuite and hid away in the main bathroom, but Van would always wake and would always come knocking. It was easier just to let him help. And if you were honest, it was a whole lot less sad if he was there.

On one particularly miserable morning, you were sitting with your back to the bathtub, silently crying. Van appeared in the doorway, running a hand through messy bed hair, still in only socks and underwear.

"You had them pills to settle it?" he asked in a rough pre-six am voice. You shook your head and watched him rummage through the bathroom doors, finding the nausea tablets. "Want water, or some of that tea stuff?"

"Tea. Please."

He nodded and crouched down in front of you. He reached out and wiped your tears away. "Sit tight, love. I'll be back."

He returned with one of his hoodies, helped you into it, then watched you drink the tea. With Van sitting by your side, you snuggled into his lap and tried to breathe through the sickness.

…

Your feet were puffy and you couldn't tell if Van was joking when he said he'd push you around in a shopping cart if you wanted. Slow and steady, you followed him through the department stores while he learnt everything there was to know about baby products.

"Van, we can do this on the internet. You know that, right?"

"I'm not much of an internet man. 'Sides, don't you wanna see it all and make sure it's what we need?"

"We went pass the point of need a while ago," you replied with a scoff. Van grinned, knowing you had but not deterred from buying more in the slightest.

As you nursed your chocolate chai and dodged the outstretched hands of strangers wanting to feel your unborn baby, you became more and more tired by the minute. Van had found a little black denim jacket though, and he was looking closely at the tag to see what material it was made of.

"I reckon we can stitch patches onto this," he decided with a nod of the head. You were standing behind him and pressed your head to his spine and wrapped your arms around his waist for support. "It will be like mine. Little Broken Hands patch and the ‘gator too. It will be dead cute. Whaddaya think?" he asked, trying to turn to look at you.

"Cute," you mumbled into him.

"Love? You alright?"

"Yeah, just tired,"

"Come on then. Home,"

"No!" you called, standing up straight. Van turned to look at you carefully. He was still holding the jacket and it seemed so, so small in his hands. It was hard to believe that you were not far off having a tiny baby to put in the jacket. You reached out for it and ran your fingers down the row of shiny, silver buttons. Would your baby grow up to own a million black coats, the same as their dad? Or would they be a colourful thing with a penchant for polka dots and zigzags?

"How are your feet?" Van asked, his excitable voice forcefully lowered to a calm, deep whisper. When you refused to answer, just remained daydreaming about your future child, Van took the coat from you and walked to the counter. It was the final find of the day.

On the car ride home, you feel asleep with aching bones but a happy heart.

…

The bedroom smelt different when you woke up. You were on your side, too big to sleep on your tummy or back anymore, facing the window. The curtains were open and the sun was only just up. It was enough to flood the room in a bright glow. You watched the ugly pop stick and cellophane 'stained glass' craft project twist from where it was strung on the curtain rod. Van had made it when he was only seven; Mary had kept it for years but when they moved from the bed and breakfast, she brutally threw out a lot of things. Van didn't care about it either, but you saved it from the trash and hung it in the bedroom you woke up in most mornings. It cast green and purple shadows across the room and made you think about the art of your future baby. 

"Love?" Van's soft voice. You looked over your shoulder. That's why the room smelt different. You sat up against the headboard and let Van put the tray of breakfast over your lap carefully. Pancakes and fruit, juice and toast. He'd even picked a rose from the front garden and put it in the little vase you'd bought from an antique store. "Ta-da!"

"You're beautiful, Van,"

"I know. Do you want some of that baby tea?"

You nodded and watched him walk from the room. He was in track pants and socks. No shirt. Had he cooked pancakes topless? It seemed like the type of silly, dangerous, well-meaning thing Van would do.

When he returned, he carried in two mugs of tea in one hand. One was the baby-safe concoction you were doomed to drink while pregnant. The other was the milky-white Yorkshire Van had been addicted to since birth. In his other hand was a plate of breakfast for himself; it was significantly less presentable. He gave himself all the overcooked and malformed pancakes.

There was no television in the bedroom. Usually you didn't mind silence with Van, but you'd become hyper-sensitive to sound and every time he chewed and swallowed it echoed loudly in your brain and upset your stomach just a little. Luckily, Van was a person that both loved music and had money to spare. There was an extensive audio system through the house and it connected wireless to your phone and his. You scrolled through your library and picked Fountaineer. Ever since they opened for Catfish in Australia, you'd been obsessed.

"Mmm. Good," Van said with a mouthful of pancake. You smiled at him.

"You're good," you replied. He smiled, lips pursed and head tilted back, childlike and beautiful.

When the plates were returned to the kitchen (but, you suspected, left on the bench for "afternoon Van" to deal with) Van crawled under the blankets and kissed secret little trails along your skin. When he got below your hips and was working his way along the tops of thighs, you squirmed.

"What are you doing?" you asked, playfully pushing him away. He nudged his head into your hands and you ruffled his soft, messy hair. You couldn't see his face from under the covers, but you could imagine the smirk.

"Kissin' you,"

"Where?"

"Everywhere,"

"Van,"

"Y/N. Relax, love. I got you."

You should have guessed that a pregnant body wouldn't make Van want you less. You should have guessed that it was a little bit of a turn on for him. Breakfast in bed and morning head. Trademark Van McCann, really.

…

"I'm going to scream," you whispered in Van's ear through clenched teeth.

"Please don't. I'm sorry,"

"Not your fault. I just wanna go. Can we go?"

He glanced over at his friend across the table. Van hadn't seen him in ages and there was an invitation to come to drinks. Van had stopped drinking when you had. Solidarity and all that. He'd been doing a good job at cutting back on the smoking too. But in the bar, surrounded by all the creature comforts he missed, it had to be torture. It hurt you to watch him keep cracking his knuckles and bouncing his leg. More than that, his friend's friends were not your type of people.

They made assumptions about you but failed to change them when you corrected their misinformation. They joked about housewives; who would want to make love and family their life, after all? Ridiculous! Then, they moved on to pregnant bodies. The changes not traditionally celebrated were spoken about like cancer. If Van had not been internally talking himself out of tobacco cravings, he could have done more to help. Neither of you were okay.

"You right, mate?" his friend asked.

"Yeah, you look white as a ghost, even for you. Have a smoke mate. You ain't the pregnant one," someone else said. Van's hand around yours tightened. He shook his head.

"Nah. Think we might head off," he replied, looking over at you. You nodded at him.

"Is it Y/N's bed time?" someone asked. Van bit down on his lip.

"Yes. It is. It was nice to meet you guys. We'll do this again," you said in a voice void of both honesty and warmth. Van's friend chuckled to himself.

When you got home you showered together and got into bed. Van gently brushed his fingers through your hair. He was still jittery.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know they'd all be there. Never liked them much,"

"It's okay. You're doing good, you know. With the smoking and stuff. Haven't had one in days, have you?" you asked. He confirmed with a nod of the head. "Yeah… Maybe you need one now. We're going to start painting soon, so there will be stuff to keep you busy this week, so have one now then try again."

He looked defeated but relieved. You watched him through the bedroom window go and sit on the front veranda with Little Mary and smoke the tension away.

…

"Imagine if they stay this puffy," you said, twinkling your toes. Van was on his knees massaging your legs and feet.

"Honestly, don't think I'd notice. Don't really remember what you were like before,"

"I mean… I didn't have this," you replied, rubbing the giant balloon weighing you down. Van smiled. "I remember. I didn't have these stretch marks. These veins are darker. Lots of changes,"

"Good changes though. All normal, yeah? You're super glowy now. Thought maybe you found a new pot of that glittery stuff,"

"Highlighter,"

"Yeah. But you're like this all the time. Even when you're not wearing makeup and even when you're tired and sick. It's cool but also kinda weird. Always glowing. Pregnancy suits you," he said. The love dripped from each of his words. Despite the sleep deprivation and morning sickness and heavy body, you liked being pregnant too.

Your favourite type of weather was that pre-storm electric breezy day. Balmy and full of potential. The afternoons that swell up and could go any which way. Being pregnant was the human equivalent of that. You were in love with it and Van was in love with your love for it.

…

"Love?"

You looked up from where you were sitting on the lounge room floor. Unable to sleep, you'd padded out to the space at three am and pulled the record player from the shelf it was on. Sitting in a spread of vinyls, you were the girl of Van's dreams.

"The baby was kicking," you explained. He nodded and sat on the couch.

"You think they know they're meeting us soon?" Van asked. Your due date was a week and a bit away, but you wouldn't be surprised if your water broke at any minute. The little life inside you was ready. You could feel it.

"Yeah. They're excited,"

"I'm excited… What are you doing?"

You looked down at the records. There was a plan to sort them into genre or year or something, but you got distracted by the music itself. "Nothing. Just listening." Van nodded. "Even if we fail at parenting, they're gonna have the best ever music to grow up to," you said as you put a new record on the player.

The music was grand and seemed to absorb all the emotion in the room to make it even bigger. As At laaaaaaaaast, was sung you looked over at Van. Soft and smiling, he was already watching you.

"Dance?" Van asked, standing a holding both hands out. You let him help you up and over the stacks of music.

My lonely days are over, and life is like a song.

With your arms wrapped around his neck and his around your waist, best he could given the size of your body, you swayed in time to the music.

The stars are above are blue.

Nuzzling into him, you felt warm and safe.

The night I looked at you, I found a dream that I could speak to.

"I want to do this again," you said. "I love being pregnant,"

"We will. Told ya - want a million babies," he replied, then kissed the top of your head.

Oh and then the spell was cast, and here we are in heaven.

"A million and one?"

For you are mine…

You could hear the smile in his voice as he replied. "A million and one sounds good."

At last.


End file.
